Abyssal Pain
by sapphtastic
Summary: Tag to Abyss. Torture. Pain. Jack O'Neill. A little exploration of what makes him tick. warning: language
1. Pain

_Tag for Abyss_

_Any recognizable characters, I don't own. Wish I did. They are all the property of their own respective makers (the lucky ducks!).  
_

_AN:This is un-betaed... I apologize in advance for any typos and such things that betas would catch. (While we're on the subject of betas, I am in need of one -- any volunteers?) This is the first of hopefully many stories to come. I have several things written, and this is the first that doesn't feel like it is part of a larger story. This is a bunny that has been hopping around in my brain for quite some time. __ I *think* it is a one shot. Enjoy!_

_(Just reuploaded to do a quick change to this first chapter. Took out the "END" and changed it to "TBC"... there will be more chapters to follow. Stay tuned.)_

**Abyssal Plain: _n._ a large area of extremely flat or gently sloping ocean floor just offshore from a continent; largely unexplored; long assumed to be lifeless  
**

* * *

Pain

He sat limply, chin tucked to chest, leaning up against the wall of his tiny cell. Jack knew the dank brown walls were no closer than the day -- or week -- before, but he was afraid to open his eyes and look. He felt his world slipping away, moment by moment. No sky, no sun, no stars. He swallowed reflexively, and leaned his head back, allowing it to thunk gently against the solid wall behind him. Jack's eyes opened and he stared upward unseeingly. He thought of the stars out there somewhere. Out there, somewhere, was home. Memories washed over him unbidden.

_"Jaaack!" The voice raged on. Jack's father was pacing their small urban backyard below him, periodically calling out, fists clenching and releasing. "Jack!!"_

_He could just make out his father's shape silhouetted in the darkness below him, between the leaves of the tall elm tree. Biting his lip in concentration, little Jack cautiously moved further out on the branch. He was a cat, he told himself. Silent, nimble. He was a cat. Jack's bare feet rasped noiselessly across the sturdy branch as he inched outward, slowly distancing himself from the trunk of the tree. One step, two. Just a few more and Jack was able to stretch the toe of one foot out to touch the metal gutter on the edge the roof. Using his hands on the smaller branch above to steady his small frame, Jack took one more step and was on the roof of their home. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and went to his knees, palms flattening themselves against the plane of the asphalt roof. The tiny sand grains were rough under his fingertips._

_Jack knew his mother was standing silently at the kitchen window, watching the scene unfold. She had followed Jack to the back door as he ran and watched him race out into the backyard, while her husband had stomped down the stairs in pursuit. As Jack had shimmied up the elm, her eyes had met his for the barest of seconds. The tremble in her lower lip was the only indication she had given that she'd seen him. He knew she wouldn't give away his location and Jack had hardly paused, rushing to get off the ground before his father made it out the door to follow. _

_As Jack crawled on his hands and knees on the roof to his place behind the chimney, two stories above the ground, he listened to the dull thud of his father's steps in the desiccated yard below, dry grass crunching under the man's big boots. Pacing._

_"JAAACK!" A particularly violent call tore itself from the man's throat. Jack winced. He knew his only chance was to out wait the rage. If he came down now... Jack licked his lips nervously and tasted blood from where he had bitten down too firmly during the climb. _

_The summer night wouldn't get too cold, Jack reassured himself. He could wait out here all night if he had to. The roof seemed to lurch beneath his knees, and little Jack quickly turned to sit behind the chimney, leaning back against the pitch of the roof to steady his world..._

Gravity was pulling at Jack the wrong way. The bile rose in Jack's throat as he turned himself toward the wall -- the new floor. He braced himself and waited. He didn't open his eyes but found purchase against the rough stone floor with his fingertips. Firm hands grasped Jack's arms and hauled him up. Jack toyed with the idea of allowing himself to be dragged, but his toes met stone and his feet automatically began to take steps for him. Opening his eyes, Jack straightened his body and shrugged his shoulders experimentally. Finding his body to be sound he walked stoically between the two guards. Jack locked away the part of his brain that was trying to think ahead to the coming minutes and hours. He instead concentrated on the moment. The second. The feel of the ground beneath his feet, the stale air of the underground bunker, the steps he was taking, one following the other. The feel of his clothing against his skin. The feel of the hands on his arms, and the prickle he got in his scalp from the knowledge that there were weapons pointed at his back making him vulnerable. Before Jack knew it, gravity was once again pulling at him in a way that was so very wrong and he looked up into the face of evil.

Ba'al.

--

_As the night air cooled, Jack pulled his arms into his body, crossing them across his chest and tucking his fingers into his armpits. He heard the muffled voices below. His father telling his mother it was her fault their small son was such a difficult child. "When I was his age..." Jack imagined his father pointing that accusatory finger at his mother, pointing and yelling, and finally poking at her forehead with it as he pummeled his point across. Jack had heard all the words before. "--would have taken my whipping without so much--" and "--wouldn't dare talk to my father like that!" Followed of course by, "He must get this from _you..._" with _you _being spat in her face like a curse word. And then his father would run through the list of things that were wrong with his mother, and Jack would start to wonder if he really was as useless as she was, and just how much of his being was created from _her. _Jack was glad he was on the roof so he didn't have to hear any of that, didn't have to think about any of that. Jack wiped away one solitary tear leaking from the corner of his eye and then tucked his arms back into his body again, letting out one traitorous shuddering breath. Jack was glad he had his roof._

_He turned his attention to the sky, stars dimmed by the lights of the city, but visible because he knew what to look for. Jack brought his mind back to the astronomy book his aunt had given him for Christmas and found a few familiar constellations and their celestial bodies. Aquila with Altair. Lyra with Vega. However, the stars in the night sky that intrigued him the most were the nearly invisible ones he could only catch in the corner of his eye. They were there for the seeing, waiting until he decided to look right at them, because they then faded away into nothing, only to reappear just as soon as he averted his gaze. Watching those stars was like trying to hold on to a handful of sand -- as soon as he released his fist to see the sparkling grains, they would blow away in the wind._

_Jack shivered, and he felt his fingers begin to tingle from the cold. His feet were braced firmly against the chimney and his knees finally began to shake. Jack shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, flexing his hands into fists repeatedly, trying to get the blood moving. Eyes wide against the night sky, he gasped as the stars faded and all began to go dark..._

His vision cleared momentarily, and Jack saw Ba'al -- the unbridled glee in the Goa'uld's face evident. Jack couldn't hear the laughing over the roaring in his ears and was glad. He took one more breath before the pain overwhelmed him. Jack's nostrils flared as he struggled. He was so cold. He _hurt. _Jack felt his pulse strain, heart beating more rapidly, desperate for life-giving oxygen, fighting the inevitable. He fought once more to resume the action of breathing, before realizing the need just wasn't there. His lips parted and the air he held escaped in one shuddering gust. His heart thudded irregularly, impossibly, rebelliously. It beat twice more. And then all was silent and still.

_The warmth of the sunrise on his face brought young Jack awake. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, savoring the feeling of a new dawn, the knowledge coming to him that he'd out-waited his irate father. His dad had given up pacing and calling around midnight, and had gone inside to sleep. Jack had chosen to remain on the roof overnight. He listened carefully now and heard his dad's booted footsteps once again, this time going across their porch in the early dawn, out to the street. Jack heard the soft clunk of the door to their Chevy closing, and the grumble as the old beast was coaxed to life and driven down the street. Jack's dad wouldn't be back until dusk. The day was his. He opened his eyes to greet the wide open morning sky._

Memory dissolved into reality and Jack's eyes opened to the sterile white light of the life-giving sarcophagus. The Chevy's mechanical rumbling faded away completely as the heavy motion of the opening lid ceased. Jack fought the urge to start screaming. Even in death, he couldn't escape. There was no escape.

TBC

* * *

AN: AHH! So very depressing. Torture is like that. Though my muse is now purged. For those curious, the song "Mad Word" by Gary Jules was on the entire time I wrote this (it really set the mood). Now go watch _Abyss_! It is an amazing episode. Also: Reviews are very welcome! I'm new to this and need all the encouragement and/or constructive criticism you can dish out. Thanks in advance.


	2. Shame

Okay, so I lied. This is going to be at least a three-parter. I took my own advice and watched the episode _Abyss _again, and my muse found more of the story to be told. I'm sure the fact that there is a foot of snow on the ground with six inches predicted to fall overnight helps, too. I'm snowed in!! So here goes...

Tag for Abyss.

Same disclaimer: I don't own any recognizable characters. They are most likely owned by MGM, Gecko, and all those other lucky ducks. Maybe someday there will be an auction or something. Hey, a girl can dream...

Also, I don't know if Jack flew helicopters in Desert Storm, so I'm taking some artistic license here and saying he did. For one, I know more about the operation of helicopters than I do about fighter jets, and two, the Air Force did operate some helicopters in Desert Storm and I feel like it would be easier to get in and out of black ops situations w/ a helicopter versus using a fighter jet.

And seriously, I haven't personally flown a Twin Huey, so forgive any errors there (as well as any typos -- no beta yet). Doing the best I can here.

Enjoy.

(AN2: By request, there is now a list of acronyms and shorthand at the end of the chapter. Why yes, the military DOES have quite a few acronyms...)

--

Shame

Jack lay still in the infirmary bed, eyes closed, breathing evenly. Anyone in the observation room above would have seen a man deeply mired in sleep. Only Jack knew better. On any other night, he would be sleeping. Listening to the whisper of the wind in the trees in his yard. The distant rush of cars on midnight runs to somewhere, nowhere. Here there was only the rustle of skin on sheets. The far off clunk of doors being closed. The creaky, squeaky sound of equipment being moved down the hall. Even in the middle of the night, the SGC never slept. Jack was quietly ignoring the presence of the cardiac monitor that silently marked each contraction of his heart. The leads were still attached to his body, the electronic screen still purposely announced each beat, but Jack had long ago pressed the button to silence it. Jack couldn't tolerate useless beeping.

_Alarms sounded in the cockpit as he frantically tried to adjust the helicopter's attitude to match the horizon. They weren't losing altitude yet, but Jack was still having trouble keeping the RPMs up, and his left hand pulled up on the collective pitch lever while twisting its grip to rev the throttle. It just wasn't working like it should -- felt like the cam linkage was gone._

_This milk run had gone to hell in a handbasket too damn fast and Jack's head was still spinning. He had been forced to alter their return flight plans when his bird had been painted by radar followed quickly by anti-aircraft artillery fire aimed in their distinct direction. Then an RPG exploded a little too close for comfort -- Jack's chest still ached from the concussive blast -- and he'd heard the scream of tearing metal as the shrapnel impacted their aircraft. That probably explained why they were running on just one engine and why the navigation and communication system was down. Jack had no way to alert the relevant individuals to the fact that he and his crew were well out of the area of operations, and that they probably wouldn't be making their way back any time soon. "Like in the next week," Jack muttered to himself. Hell, with the nav system non-operational, he couldn't even see where the damn area of operations was._

_Jack's right hand was working the cyclic pitch control, but their flight was still far from level. The pedals also felt rough, but Jack was just thankful he had control of the tail rotor. Still, things were going to be FUBAR soon if he couldn't get control of the attitude. The horizon still swayed disconcertingly in the distance. He needed to set this helo down, but he wanted to be as far away as possible from the armed combatants on the ground._

_Jack shouted at the weapons system operator. "Hey Wizzo! You ok?" _

_"Uh... Yes sir! I mean, no sir. But I can work my controls." And the man continued firing at the sporadic resistance peppering them from below._

_Jack didn't spare a glance at the airman. The hesitation in the man's reply along with the tang of blood in the cockpit told Jack everything he needed to know, but he took his weapons system officer's words for what they were. "That's what I want to hear. Watch our six." They needed those weapons firing if they had a chance in hell of outrunning the Iraqi ground forces._

_Jack was only able to keep the bird in the air for another four minutes before he lost all altitude control. He was pulling on the collective pitch control with everything he had, the damn throttle was torqued outboard as far as it would go and still Jack felt the rotors relax their angle of attack. And then the .50 caliber was no longer firing. A quick look showed him his airman slumped over in the harness -- eyes open, vacant and cold._

_Jack took a deep breath and braced himself. The engine was screaming, the acrid smell of blood and scorched hydraulic fluid was in the air. The ground rushed up to greet him._

Jack breathed. In and out. Slow and even.

One breath followed the next and still Jack's forehead gleamed with the sheen of his cold sweat. Despite his best efforts, Jack felt his back tensing, his head pressing more deeply into the pillow, his elbows pressing into the mattress, his fists clenching in the now damp sheets. He swallowed convulsively, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything he would regret out loud. Janet hovered briefly, doing her best to be unobtrusive. She checked his pulse at his wrist, comparing it to the blips on the monitor, and it took everything Jack had not to lash out. His breath hitched but he forced it out again through his teeth. Slow and even, he breathed. Dr. Frasier wiped a damp cloth across his forehead. Her eyes met Jack's and he saw the sorrow etched there. Her eyes said she was sorry.

Regret barreled through Jack O'Neill when he saw guilt in the typically Napoleonic woman's eyes. He knew Janet blamed herself for the recent events because she had suggested he take a symbiote to cure his fatal disease. Jack would never blame Janet. Only himself for allowing the blending to occur. Janet broke her gaze away, lowered the lights, and stepped back to the observation room, allowing the Colonel his semblance of privacy. Jack worked on relaxing his body so no one could see the agony he had to endure. He unclenched his fists, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing. In and out. Slow and even.

_Jack plodded through the desert. Putting one foot in front of the other. Left and right. Once and again. Ten steps forward and then a glance at the horizon to check his forward landmarks, to make sure he was progressing in the right direction. Ten steps, glance. Ten steps, glance. He'd been going for days._

_Jack was reaching his physical limit. The water had run out at oh-nine-hundred and the sun was now high in the sky. With shaking hands, he pulled the final packet from his pocket, the foil smooth and slippery beneath his parched fingertips. Breaking open the packet, Jack dry-swallowed his final two Dex. He tucked the packet back in his pocket with the other dozen or so empties. His go-pills were the only thing keeping him going. Stimulant medication given to him by the dear old Air Force before each flight, the pills he had rarely needed. Jack O'Neill ran on adrenaline alone ninety-nine percent of the time. He'd usually pocketed the pills instead of checking them back in, saving them for a rainy day._

_Jack tested his voice. "When it rains it pours, eh?." It came out gravelly, his throat dry and tired from disuse._

_He glanced at the clear blue sky, squinting at the sun, and then idly wondered if talking to himself out loud meant he was losing some of his bright, shiny marbles to sun exposure. Jack resisted the urge to glance back to make sure none of his marbles lay sparkling on the dull sand along with the footsteps retreating into the distance._

_The Lieutenant-Colonel knew if he got out of this alive, he'd be flying a desk for sure. Couldn't keep his helo in the air. Parts of it were scattered over 30 miles of desert. Couldn't keep his WSO alive. Didn't even have the ability to bring the body home. And he knew the Air Force sure as hell wasn't going in on a CSAR mission for one or two dead bodies, not out here in the middle of the fucking Anbar Province. It was unlikely anyone was on the way for them but Jack still kept one ear to the sky, listening for the Pave Hawk that would never come. Jack knew how slim the odds were that he would make it out of here alive. And still he was marching for the border. Marching west, for Syria. So he could go home._

Sometime around midnight, it came. From deep within him came that familiar need, the one he couldn't touch. The ache he couldn't numb. The hole he couldn't fill.

Jack wanted to go back. He was incredibly grateful SG1 had come up with a way to rescue him from Ba'al's torture. But Jack _needed _to go back. He knew with every ounce of his soul that it was wrong to want that, and how fucking _sick _did it make him that he wanted it so badly, needed it so badly, but he wanted -- to -- go -- back. He needed that sarcophagus. He wanted to go back now.

Now.

Jack wet his lips, swallowed, and called out. "Doc." He meant for it to come out strong, firm, commanding. Instead, he could hardly hear himself. He tried to make it a little louder. "Doc? Janet!" That was a little better, but Jack's voice was definitely raspy and tired.

With his eyes closed, Jack heard the door slide open. The doctor came in with nearly silent steps. Jack focused on breathing. There was something he wanted to ask, but couldn't remember how to put it into words. A cool cloth wiped his forehead again. An ice chip settled against his lips and he pulled it between his lips; the cool moisture felt heavenly in his dry mouth.

_Jack set his jaw and felt sand grit between his teeth. His eyes were open, but in the dark cell, he could see very little. Jack's hands were tied together roughly behind his back, and he was leaning back against a concrete wall._

_He felt antsy. Kicked his feet. Tried to free his wrists. Counted to a thousand -- twelve times. _

_Jack began to feel drowsy, hungry, thirsty. Shouting didn't work. His captors were firmly determined to pretend Jack O'Neill didn't exist. Invisible people didn't need food or water. He'd tried asking nicely. He'd tried antagonizing them. "Hey Ali Baba!" They firmly ignored his calls, his pleas. He tried to listen in on the Farsi conversations going on behind the closed metal door, but couldn't understand more than one word in ten and only became more frustrated. Jack wondered what they wanted from him. He hadn't been asked one question. Not one question._

_Jack lay there in the dank, stinking darkness, and began to feel disoriented. He stretched his shoulders as far as his bindings would allow. At first he'd attributed his discomfort to his hunger and thirst and the anxiety of just not knowing. After nodding off for what must have been the twelfth time, only to start awake from yet another vivid and bizarre nightmare, Jack began to realize what was happening to him. That want, that need, that ache. It was tearing him down from the inside out. After pushing himself to the limit in the desert for days with little more than a high dose of dextroamphetamine to sustain him, Jack was going through withdrawals._

Jack bit down on his lower lip and tasted blood, but it kept him from calling out. A cool hand on his forehead grounded him. Two deep breaths, and then another. He held his breath then, but it didn't help. Jack kicked his feet helplessly. To be stuck in this damn bed when just one little nap in the sarcophagus would make him feel better in an instant … it was torture. Jack threw his head back into the pillow. The feeling was visceral, instinctive. He wanted to escape, but he wasn't sure from what -- and that was when Jack realized he wasn't running _from _anything. He wanted to run _to _something. He wanted to blow through the infirmary doors, grab the nearest weapon, and go straight through the Stargate. There were still plenty of Goa'uld occupied planets out there; one of them had to have a sarcophagus. He could go. It wasn't too late.

Jack started to sit up.

A cool, strong hand pressed him back and a quiet voice shushed him. "Shhh…"

_Jack breathed deeply and let out a scream. He was shouting now, babbling. "I just want some water, something, anything!" He heard himself as if from far away. "God, someone help me." He lay there with his ear against the cold concrete wall waiting for the chop of the rotors that would announce his rescue. "We don't leave people behind." He was mumbling now, but he didn't care because nobody was listening anyway. Nobody was listening. Nobody was coming. Jack was on his own. Tied to a fucking wall in god-damned mother-fucking Iraq._

_Jack felt a new burst of rage. _

"_Come on! You can't fucking do this to me! I have rights! Call the Air Force, America, call the goddamned president of the United States! Call someone! You can't fucking DO this to me!" The shout wrenched itself violently from Jack's body and he found himself kneeling facedown on the floor near the door. "Just kill me already." It was barely more than a whisper, but it was heartfelt._

_Forehead to the dirt floor, Jack waited. He would know when the door opened. He would be ready._

_--_

TBC

--

_By request, a list of acronyms and short hand:_

_SGC = you should know this: Stargate Command._

_RPMs = Revolutions Per Minute, a measure of engine speed._

_Milk Run = simple flight mission, like 'easy as pie.'_

_"painted by radar" = being actively swept by radar, showing up on the enemy's screen as a blip.  
_

_anti-aircraft artillery fire = I just want to point out here that usually one would say "triple-A" ... I was genuinely trying to limit the use of acronyms, here. _;)

_RPG = rocket propelled grenade_

_nav = short for navagation_

_FUBAR = effed up beyond all recognition (or alternatively, beyond all repair). Sounds like, "foobar." Closely related to SNAFU: situation normal, all effed up.  
_

_Wizzo or WSO = Weapons System Officer. Usually in the second seat or backseat of an aircraft; the person controlling the weapons system._

_"watch our six" = "watch behind us", referring to the six-o-clock position._

_Dex or "go pills" = short for dextroamphetamine, a stimulant medication used by pilots on long missions to combat fatique. Increases alertness; a typical dose feels like drinking a couple of cups of coffee. Quite habit forming, dangerous in higher doses, a tightly controlled substance (schedule 2 prescription medication, like morphine) in civilian situations._

_CSAR = Combat Search and Rescue. The US Air Force didn't run as many CSAR missions as they typically would have during Desert Storm due to various difficulties w/ equipment, weather, politics and terrain. Many soldiers shot down were genuinely left to their own devices._

_"angle of attack" and "attitude" are aviation terms of which I cannot do justice in two or three sentences... google is your friend_

_Feel free to message me if you are still confused or if I've overlooked anything that seems important.  
_

_--  
_

AN: Thanks for all the reviews on the first chapter! I really appreciate them. I never realized how gratifying it is to see that people are *reading* my work. I should write for fun more often…

More reviews would be great! Positive or negative, I'd like to know what you are thinking.

Keep in mind that I have a two-year-old, and every single review gets kicked right into my email inbox -- nice little reminders for me to keep setting aside time to write. I'm hoping for one more chapter here... it's mostly written. Just needs to be edited.


	3. Touch

_AN: As promised, here is part three -- dedicated to my desk cat, Jackson. He always appears on my desk just as pen touches paper or fingers touch keyboard. My constant writing companion. And, yes, I swear, he was named that when I got him. And yes, he can be quite the lovable pest, just like his namesake._

_Onward._

_The usual disclaimer applies (I don't own them, don't make money from them). I resolutely plan to blame any typos or other inaccuracies on the Dayquil (and my stubborn lack of a beta)._

_Enjoy._

--

Touch

Whispered words brought Jack back to consciousness. It hurt too much to focus on the words, so he just let the syllables drift around him, soothing and real. Cool hands still periodically wiped his face and neck with a damp cloth. The cloth had been warmed; Jack's body was shaking with chills. He tried to bring his arms in close to warm them against his body and found he wasn't able to shift his limbs at all.

Panic set in. Jack needed to move. Had to move. But couldn't move. He pulled at the restraints tentatively, apprehensively. Desperately when they didn't give an inch. The leather was tight against his skin, smooth and unyielding. He felt the fear bubbling up inside him, and furiously pushed it back down.

"Shhh." Strong hands squeezed his arm reassuringly, and a thick blanket was drawn up over his trembling form.

_Arms wrapped themselves around him reassuringly, and he heard her voice in his ear, breathy and quiet. "It's okay, I'm here." Jack felt his body release some of its tension with a shudder. He wiped at his face with the heels of his palms, rubbing some of the uncertainty from his bleary eyes. His hand found the digital clock on the bedside table. It was still the middle of the night, and Sarah settled herself back onto the bed beside him._

_Jack could make out her silhouette against the white pillowcase, and knew without seeing it that her eyes were searching his face in the dark, searching for an explanation for the night terrors that gripped him night after night. Dreams that could bring him awake with a start, with a shout. Dreams that so obviously made him reluctant to sleep at all._

_Her voice, when it came, was soft. "You were calling out for me." It wasn't a question._

_Jack just nodded, mutely. There were no words he could give her to make the pain disappear. He knew his wife didn't understand the disparity within him since his return from Iraq. He was fearfully seeking her presence in the dark of night, yet held her at arm's length once the daylight returned. _

_Upon his return, Jack had locked away those dark months in the desert, sequestered them deep within as if within an iron clad room. Jack had thrown away the key. The fears and uncertainty only returned at night while he slept, his mind unguarded, and Sarah couldn't understand why he shut her out._

_In the end Jack had come home safe; safe as anyone locked in a dark, dirty room for months on end could be. Safe as anyone who had been on the business end of a live electrical wire could ever be. Strung up and left for hours, beaten and bashed, blood mixing with the dirt of the floor to cover his body like a paste. Forced to stand for days at a time until his body gave way with fatigue and no amount of beating could make him rise to stand again. Safe. American soldiers had raided the building Jack was kept in, and he'd become safe. He'd been given medals, promoted, told he was a national hero. Safe. He came home safe. He retired. Safe._

_The memories of that time were locked away, shadowed and alone, inaccessible along with the deep abiding love Jack felt for his wife. Precious thoughts of his wife, Sarah waiting for him at home, had kept him going for so long during the bleak and terrible time -- Jack no longer knew how to separate the two. When he now imagined pulling Sarah into his arms and feeling her resolute form pressed against him, he simultaneously remembered just how many times he'd brought that same image into his mind to dissociate from the terror of what was happening to him, to get away from the pain, to keep from wishing he were dead. Every hug, every touch, every caress -- they were forever tainted with the horror of that dirty cell. And now Jack didn't know how to want Sarah without thinking of those desperate, dark months._

_Jack lay back on his pillow and stared blankly at the ceiling searching in vain for the words to explain._

As the gentle hands unbuckled the restraints, Jack found his voice. "I wanted to die."

The hands didn't hesitate in their actions. They kept on calmly, smoothly releasing his limbs from their fetters. Fingers gently rubbed his wrists, bringing back full circulation, smoothing away the abraded sensation left behind by the leather bindings. The blanket was pulled back up to his shoulders, and Jack continued to speak. He let his lips move and the words came forth, and Jack tried not to map out the road they would take.

"I've wished for death before, but never really _wanted _it." He shifted his body restlessly and turned his head on the pillow to look at the woman who had released him from his bonds. Sam had been taking the night shift at his side in the infirmary so Janet could bunk down and sleep for a few hours, and it was Sam who now stood by Jack's side.

Sam's eyes met his, and she encouraged him to go on. It was just the barest of nods, but it was there.

"I wanted it this time, Sam. I wanted to die. And then when Ba'al gave it to me, I wasn't allowed to keep it."

Sam held the look, and Jack saw all he needed there in her unwavering regard. No pity, no judgment, no doubt. Jack took a deep breath and broke their gaze. Settling onto his back, he fixed his focus on the cold concrete ceiling and released the final words. "I've never felt more helpless in my life."

Jack toyed with the edge of the blanket restlessly, trying to shunt his emotions aside. He knew Sam would understand. And when he locked this experience up in that iron room and threw away the key, Sam wouldn't question him for that, either.

Jack heard Sam's stance shift, and he felt a soft tap at his shoulder, encouraging him to sit up. He complied, eyes down, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. It took longer than he would have liked to force his body into the upright position and Sam's strong hands steadied his shoulders. Jack tried to stall by examining the hand resting at his left deltoid. Sam's hand looked delicate, but was dynamic. The same hands he'd seen braiding Cassie's hair or fixing delicate technology could fire a powerfully violent weapon, or drag a colleague safely out of harm's way. Or drag a friend back from the depths of despair…

He let his eyes trail from Sam's hand up to her arm then her shoulder and then onto her face. Jack stared into the bluest eyes ever and tried not to think.

Sam only smiled an emotional smile and gave him the one word Jack hadn't yet allowed himself to admit he craved.

"C'mere." Her voice was steady and calm, and he obeyed without hesitation.

Sam gathered Jack O'Neill in her arms. He rested his forehead against her shoulder and let his mind clear, enveloped in her unyielding strength -- the scent of Sam isolating him from anything and everything. One of her arms was tight around the back of his shoulders, the other hand rested softly on the bare skin at the back of Jack's neck. He imagined he could feel the pulse in her veins, and wished his ear was against her chest to hear the beating of her heart. Instead he focused on matching his breaths to hers. In and out they breathed as one, slow and steady.

Jack hoped that somehow their embrace could have lasted for all eternity, but it ended too soon just a few short moments later. They both sighed on their final simultaneous breath as Sam released her hold on Jack's body. He tilted his head to look at her one more time, his hands still braced tightly against his knees.

Sam stepped back, reinstating that unspoken professional distance. "You okay?… Sir?" The brief silence before she added the 'sir' echoed loudly to Jack in the quiet room.

He simply met her gaze evenly and nodded once. Jack felt the key physically click. So much locked away inside. But Jack O'Neill was always fine. He was home safe.

Sam took a few hesitant steps backward, toward the door, her expression apologetic. "I have to let Janet know you're awake, sir. She made me promise…"

"Aw, Carter. You didn't!" Jack decided to make his protest irreverent and over the top, hoping to diffuse the emotional sentiment of the situation. To her credit, Sam managed to look reasonably abashed. Jack continued on, gesticulating wildly with his hands while he spoke. "I escape the clutches of one ego-maniacal dictator and you release me to yet another? Ten bucks says Janet comes in with that-- that _penlight _of hers_. _I mean, honestly, what is she going to find in my _eyes?_"

Jack allowed a small grin. He was quickly recovering his impudence along with his equilibrium.

Sam smothered a small giggle. She turned to open the door and joked lightly to him over her shoulder, "Sir -- I think you'll live." She spared one more glance at her commanding officer.

Jack noticed that the smile on her face didn't quite erase the question in her eyes; he understood her unspoken query. Smiling wryly, he waved Sam away in mock irritation. "Yeah, Major. I'll live." He kept his tone light, but did his best to emphasize his sincerity.

Jack gathered the blanket around his shoulders and settled his body back into a more comfortable position as he watched Samantha square her shoulders and exit the room.

Yeah.

He would live.

.

.

END.

--

_And I think that might actually be the end this time._

_I feel I should note: never in the history of head colds has there been a head cold as annoyingly severe as the one currently residing in my sinus cavities. Oye. DayQuil isn't touching it. I'm also still snowed in, running out of sugar for my coffee -- and with zero internet access to boot! I literally had to trudge at about a block on foot through 16 inches of snow to bring my thumb drive to a working computer to post this. Oh how I wish I were exaggerating. Thank goodness there were Christmas cookies and a movie awaiting me at the end of that walk. Hopefully this fic has helped me purge my bah-humbugs!_

_I'd love to get some reviews, this being my first fic and all. Still no internet access here at home, but I can check email on my phone. It would definitely warm my Christmas to know folks are reading. Thanks! Hope your holidays are fantabulous._


End file.
